Reparations
by Azii
Summary: Because you can't be involved with Hirato without picking up a few tricks along the way. Hirato/Akari. Mind the rating.


It seems to me that Akari needs character rehab. So, I've resolved that for every teary-eyed, histrionic Akari I read, I'm going to write a story wherein Akari is a bad ass. Bad ass, you hear me?! Here's my logic: An uber bad ass like Hirato is not going to waste his time getting involved with anyone who can't hold their own. Ergo, Akari is a bad ass. A latent bad ass whose badassery must be incited by atypical circumstances perhaps, but a bad ass nonetheless.

Hey guys, this is PWP, okay? Be forewarned. Also, I know it's completely infeasible for the events of this story to take place during hospitalization, but like, I couldn't resist. It's not like I know anything about the human body anyway.

Read this as though it's part of 'Karnevalesque'; I didn't append it to that story because of the rating. Might be crackish. I don't know.

* * *

Slitted incarnadines peer through the narrow strip of glass into the patient room. Hirato's inky tresses are blue-black under the silvery moonbeams that filter in through the gauzy curtains. The same lilac light washes out his pale skin, making him look ethereally beautiful, otherworldly. The illusion would be complete were it not for the fact that the wily devil is fighting sleep. It's cute, actually, the way the commander rubs his too-tired eyes with a fist and stifles a yawn.

_Like a recalcitrant toddler refusing to go to bed, _the doctor thinks. He smothers a smile. His lover is many things—deceptive, lethal, breathtaking, shrewd, charismatic—but rarely ever cute. In fact, this is the only time Akari has used that word to describe Circus' Second Captain.

Unfortunately for the protozoan idiot in his care, cute does not cover a multitude of sins. Nearly getting himself killed, for example. No amount of _cute_ will induce Akari to forgive that particular transgression. Then there's the matter of ending up in a Research Tower operating theater, under the doctor's scalpel. Again. (Although his injuries were, admittedly, far less severe than expected.) And if that weren't enough, the conniving reprobate laced his coffee with soy sauce this morning. _Bastard._

To be fair, that last one was retaliation in kind, but nevertheless…

Naturally, Akari must collect due remuneration for the sheer havoc the other man has wreaked upon his nerves today. Elevated stress levels are deleterious to his health, after all.

He steps inside the darkened room, bolting the door and drawing the shades.

Hirato is mildly incapacitated from morphine, but these small actions do not escape his notice. "Goodness, doctor," he offers with a raised brow, "if I didn't know better, I'd guess you were going to murder me in my sleep."

"You're not asleep," the blond observes tersely, footsteps echoing across the tiled floor in the cadence of a funeral dirge. He slinks forward and cups a cheek, leaning in for a fleeting kiss before stepping back to inject something into the brunet's IV. "Not yet."

Hirato's feeble protests cease once sedatives flood his bloodstream.

* * *

Hours later, the commander's eyelids creak open and his blurred vision gradually acclimates to the scant illumination. Akari is seated bedside, gaze trained on a medical journal, the glow from a reading lamp suffusing him in a yellowish halo. Hirato stirs, capturing his attention. Seeing that his partner is awake, the blond's lips turn up in a faint smirk.

Hirato tries to stretch and finds that he can't. While he was unconscious, his IV was removed and medical restraints were applied to his wrists and ankles. Such bonds could hardly fetter him ordinarily, but they're certainly efficacious when he's not wearing his Circus ID. He tugs at them futilely, the lingering soporific in his system making him sluggish and imprecise.

Akari studies him in unconcealed amusement. "You'll wear yourself out if you keep doing that." A dark, delighted laugh thrums through the air. "Although I have to say that watching you struggle is... well, _precious_."

Ever the soldier, Hirato's stoicism obtains. He clears his throat and speaks calmly and evenly. "When I'm released, I'm going to—"

"Do what?" The doctor stands and looms over the prone man, pitching his voice like poisoned honey—cloying, but concealing untold threats. "You'd never harm me. Not really. And given that you embarrass and taunt me _without_ provocation, I can only surmise that your redoubled efforts will amount to no more than an added nuisance."

The captain sighs wearily. They play this game whenever he's injured. He comes home wounded and in retribution, Akari makes his hospitalization as unpleasant as possible. "I understand you're upset," he mollifies, "but I had my orders."

The pad of an ungloved index finger presses against his lips, demanding silence. The physician's eyes burn with startling intensity but he says nothing. That hard stare, however, is enough to compel obedience. Akari wordlessly climbs atop his captive, straddling Hirato's hips and planting steadying hands on his chest. After righting himself, he peels off his lab coat, movements slow and teasing. Heliotrope orbs go wide with comprehension when the garment lands on the floor with a muted _whoosh_. The doctor loosens his tie and unfastens the first few buttons of his shirt.

"Is this part of my treatment?" inquires the patient gamely.

"No."

Akari captures his mouth, taking Hirato's bottom lip between his teeth. The commander hisses as pressure is steadily increased until his flesh scores. _This is new_, he thinks. His bedmate has never handled his body with roughness or force, but subtle anger inflects his actions at present, and while the researcher is not being careless by any imaginative stretch, he's definitely not demonstrating his typical meticulousness. Those measured fingertips aren't etching delicate patterns into Hirato's skin; they aren't conveying affection. They're assertive, challenging. Akari isn't giving of himself tonight; he's _taking_ his claim. It's uncharacteristic. It's _sexy. _

Any possibility of delving deeper into the blond's frame of mind dissipates when he rolls his hips unhurriedly while unbuttoning Hirato's pajama shirt, inch by agonizing inch. Anticipation makes the fine cotton feel like sandpaper against heated skin; appetency floods the captain's nerves with delicious electricity. In fact, he cannot discern why having a lap full of amorous doctor is punishment until it occurs to him that he's unable to reach out, to bracket those narrow hips as they rock back and forth in a maddening rhythm, to travel his hands over that lithe body, to pull his paramour close for a desperate kiss. He is completely at Akari's mercy, and Akari is demonstrating no inclinations towards clemency.

"Let me go," he asks more than says, intuiting the answer before the request even leaves his lips.

The physician only chuckles softly before nipping at the corner of Hirato's jaw. "Not a chance," he murmurs, searing kisses down the side of the brunet's neck, stopping from time to time to suck at the skin with vigor enough to bruise. For once, Hirato will be wearing the tell-tale marks of their tryst. The fact thrills him for reasons he cannot place.

"Vengeance, is it, my dear doctor?" _How very cute. _

Akari shifts off him and he's met with another kiss, this one coupled with a confident hand slipping below the waistband of his pants. "The sweetest kind," the blond mutters, thumbing the head of Hirato's cock.

"I suspect this will be more enjoyable if you free me." The commander essays another go, trying in vain to ignore how that exploring touch is causing a tingling heat to spread over him. He bites his lip and turns aside as Akari slips a thumbnail into his slit, teasing out more liquid.

"I'll untie you if you apologize." It's spoken with a rasp of tongue against Hirato's neck.

_You devious bastard. _He would be duly impressed, really, were it not for the fact that Akari's long fingers are wrapped tightly around his shaft, moving up and down in a deliberate tempo, concomitantly unhinging any coherent thought except for the most primal instincts. Instincts that scream at him to pin his lover to the mattress and fuck him into oblivion. _If only he hadn't tied me up first. _

"Is that a no?" Akari queries. He removes his hand and sits up, once again settling himself across Hirato's hips.

The discomfort is enough to make the captain buck, but he is accustomed to the vicissitudes of warzones. This is nothing in comparison. A minor inconvenience. He merely smirks. "I'm not apologizing."

Akari shrugs in a noncommittal manner and reaches across the bed. He plucks a cup off the nightstand and tips the contents into his mouth. Hirato's drug-addled mind is yet processing the significance of these gestures when dull crunching shoots a trill through his frame and sparks of anticipation flying up his spine. _Ice_. He starts at the revelation; the attendant look on his partner's face turns downright sinister. Akari replaces the cup and bares his throat as he swallows. Hirato notices the muscles in his neck move around each mouthful, the sinewy tendons as they flex. Useless hands curl around the bedrails in their want for touch, fingernails gliding impotently against the metal when Hirato's cock is exposed to the cool of the room. With the first drag of icy tongue against oversensitive skin, his head falls back into the pillow_. Oh, fuck._

"This is unfair," he states, voice gruff.

His companion's only reply is a hushed, noiseless laugh that forces air across his moist shaft. Hirato moans as Akari sucks the tip, chilly lips intensifying the sensation, precipitating a not unpleasant sting as the blond takes him fully into his mouth, sliding down his length in an infuriatingly languid manner. The doctor withholds pressure too, lips and tongue slack, gentle. Heated exhales waft over frosty wetness when he pulls back, prompting the commander to murmur a series of dirty promises. Akari pushes his thighs apart, releasing him to tease the head of his cock with playful flicks of tongue. Then the researcher goes down over him again, snaking a hand up Hirato's chest, reaching his nipple and pinching it playfully before settling graceful fingers against his mouth. The brunet snaps at the digits before taking them in, tongue sliding against them greedily. He's savoring the flavor of the other man, rolling it across his palate when the sudden feel of a canine running along his length causes him to clamp down. Hard.

Akari only chuckles again, making him twitch. Any subsequent cognition stalls when the blond hollows his cheeks and draws Hirato in, tilting his chin at the perfect angle to accommodate him entirely. Several moments are filled with nothing but the sound of the captain's ragged breathing as Akari makes expert use of his prodigious anatomical knowledge. Soon, heat begins to pool low in Hirato's abdomen, signaling his inexorable slide into orgasm. He sighs contentedly, grateful for the imminent relief.

But then the physician stills. Hirato tilts his hips forward as Akari withdraws, body instinctively protesting the loss. It's a testament to his equanimity that he does not growl in objection.

The researcher once more straddles his prey. He levels his gaze and wipes the back of his hand across his lips. Slowly. They're swollen now, and while Hirato can't make out their color in the dim light, he knows from experience that they're an alluring shade of red.

"I think you've made your point," he says with some difficulty. "Now if you would be so kind as to untie me…"

"Are you apologizing?"

"Of course not."

"Then I'm not finished making my point." When Akari reaches for his own belt, the commander registers a clawing sensation in the pit of his stomach—a ravenous hunger, itching to be satiated. He can practically _feel _that toned flesh sliding under his palms, Akari's breath, hot and ragged against his ear, impossibly long legs wrapped around his waist. The doctor exposes himself, causing Hirato to avert his eyes—not for reasons of delicacy or propriety, but because he doesn't trust himself not to capitulate. Disadvantaged he may be, but he is a virtuoso of combat strategy. He knows how to parry a blow, even one delivered by his lover.

"You can't be serious."

"As shamelessly as you stare at me, I assumed you'd like to watch," Akari says wryly.

He's determined not to look, not to encourage his partner's nascent sadistic fetishes, but a halting inhale obliges his attention. When he chances a glance, what he sees steals his breath. The ever-composed SSS-ranked prodigy is pleasuring himself with uninhibited abandon. His hand—the one still covered in Hirato's saliva—works his shaft at a steady rhythm, thumb traveling over the crown at regular intervals, palm twirling slightly with each upstroke. His head is thrown back, shirt slipping off his shoulders and tie nowhere to be found. The other hand is splayed low on Hirato's abdomen while Akari grinds against him, circling his hips and demolishing whatever tenuous grip on control the brunet manages to retain. Hirato arches, but it's not enough. It will never be enough, not until he experiences every contour of his paramour's body fitted against him.

Even so, he's only marginally concerned. With all the writhing around going on, the both of them are bound to climax soon. He simply needs to ride things out (literally).

Then Akari calls his name—wildly, filthily, interspersing the syllables with haggard breaths. As many times as his paramour has said it in a fever pitch of passion, it has _never_ sounded like it does now—guttural, feral almost. _Untamed_.

"Shit," Hirato curses. He licks his lips, throat suddenly parched.

Another self-satisfied snicker and the researcher slows his gyrations, ensuring that he catches Hirato's eyes. "Would you feel better or worse knowing that I'm imagining you doing this to me?"

The commander's hands fly forward, only to be stopped very short by his restraints. "Damnit."

"Say it," Akari orders before recommencing his ministrations.

"No."

"That's unfortunate," the doctor manages shakily, "because I want _you_ to make me come." As if to prove a point, he twists his wrist in a manner that causes light brows to knit together. "Don't you want to make me come?"

_Oh god, yes. _"Akari..." It's a warning. An unheeded warning, but a warning regardless (although the captain would be hard pressed to articulate what, exactly, he was warning against). Hirato never loses, particularly not his own games. That being said, no one other than Akari can drive him to the precipice of defeat. No one wields that kind of power except the genius physician sitting on top of him, exploiting his _one_ weakness and manipulating his every desire. Truly, he'd applaud his bedmate's prowess if his hands weren't bound. To have Circus' Second Commander in such a vulnerable position is no mean feat.

Akari's breathing grows shallow. His eyes are clamped shut, head tipped back, mouth slightly open, and Hirato knows that he's on the brink. "I want you to take me like you've never done. Make me lose myself while you're inside me. Make me call your name, over and over, until my voice grows hoarse."

Hirato's mouth forms an astonished 'o' at the words. His exceedingly refined paramour is never so forthcoming or blunt _en flagrante delicto_. Indeed, the last few exchanges comprise the full extent of Akari's version of racy conversation. It's heady and intoxicating (doubtless that was the intent), and in his current predicament, such behavior is vexing as hell. He groans at the injustice. _So many bygone opportunities, and he's going to __start talking dirty _now_?_ He shakes his head incredulously but can't fight the emergent grin. Despite their long acquaintance, Akari still finds novel ways of surprising him. _Well, of course he is. He knows _precisely _what he's doing; he knows what I like, after all. _"Then let me loose, doctor dearest. I'll happily grant your wishes."

A warm hand wraps around Hirato's shaft again, handling him with enough pressure for a quick release. "Say it," Akari repeats. "Say it, or I'll finish it off myself."

Maybe, if he'd have permitted himself the luxury of thought, he would have refused again. But he's only cognizant of a singular order of business—when the blond comes apart, he will do so at Hirato's hands. That sublime moment of surrender belongs solely to the captain, and no one—not even Akari himself—will deny it to him. "I'll be more mindful next time," he says hurriedly, making some recompense but patently _not _apologizing. Indeed, Hirato never loses.

Akari's smile is like the sunrise. Obviously he never expected a full apology, but even a meager show of contrition is sufficient. "Good enough."

The instant he's completely unfettered, Hirato rolls the researcher onto his back, trapping him and attacking his neck with fervent, open-mouthed kisses. At this proximity, he can see intermittent splotches marring his lover's skin, bluish-purple in the low light. Akari may have rendered a masterful performance, but he is blushing furiously as a result. Hirato traces the stain of color along the other man's cheek, his touch reserved, reverent almost. "So adorable," he says without an iota of mockery, "but I'm afraid that won't save you. You'll pay for that little charade," he informs, slipping a hand down Akari's side and relishing the fact that he feels _exquisite_.

Akari inhales sharply as that hand encircles his cock. "I hope so, although I daresay it will be strenuous given your present state."

"I'm exceedingly resilient. I'll manage," the brunet responds slyly. Before requital can commence in earnest, he gently nuzzles the shell of an ear. "I'm sorry that I worried you," he whispers, "but you should know by now that I'll always come back."

"I know."

And if he detects a trace of sadness lingering in coral irises, Hirato hopes his kiss will impart what his lips cannot speak.

* * *

Bonus points if you can guess Hirato's one weakness. Here's a hint: it's not Akari.


End file.
